


Everybody Lies, Everybody Dies

by StanfouQueen



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Sad, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StanfouQueen/pseuds/StanfouQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pre-ep for next week's episode, The C Word. House/Wilson friendship or preslash, depending on your view. Contains spoilers, obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Lies, Everybody Dies

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own  
> A/N: I haven't watched an episode of House since last season; everything I know is from recaps of tonight's episode and the teaser for next week's. I haven't written House fiction for quite some time, so I hope my characterization isn't off.
> 
> This one is just House/Wilson friendship or pre-slash, which is a change from what I usually write, but there you go. I hope you like it. Reviews are welcome!

House couldn't remember ever being at a loss for words before now.

 _Wilson_ _has cancer._ The thought bounces in his skull, tripping every other thought in his mind. The one person he cared about was sick, possibly dying.

And he wanted to make it even likelier with the dangerous treatment. And he wanted House to promise not to take him to the hospital.

What kind of a request was that?

Nothing makes sense. He sets a hand on his forehead, shaking his head. Wilson of all people. The oncologist has cancer. The brilliant doctor is being an idiot about his treatment. Wilson…

"Fuck," he hisses, closing his eyes. "Fucking _fuck._ "

He's usually more eloquent than this, but for now… Fuck seems to describe things well enough.

They go to his place, at his insistence. He outright steals some medical equipment from Princeton-Plainsboro, not that anyone cares. Worst case, he'll get a little slap on the wrist.

His heart wrenches as he watches Wilson cough and vomit. He turns away whenever he can. Dying he can handle, pain he can handle, but not like this.

When Wilson coughs up blood, his stomach _plummets._

"You have to go to the hospital, _now,_ " House says.

"I'd rather die here," Wilson says, weak but desperate. "I'm not going to the hospital. Promise me!"

And now he's trapped. It's like he's been damned to hell with just one sentence; surely he's being tested. He can't make that promise, not when Wilson's dying before his eyes.

But his life's motto comes back to him. It makes him feel guilty, but Wilson will understand in the long run. And if he doesn't… it's worth it.

"Okay," he whispers, setting a hand on Wilson's forehead.

Everybody lies.

Getting the sedative is surprisingly easy. Just a simple phone call to Thirteen and she shows up all cloak-and-dagger, syringe and vial in hand.

He nods silently, taking the items from her.

"House," Thirteen says, scrutinizing him, "I know changing your mind is like trying to have a snowball fight in hell, but I want you to think about something. My Huntington's… You promised that if it gets bad enough-"

He sees where this is going. "I haven't changed my mind," he says. "This is different. Wilson has a chance, but he's too stupid to take it."

Thirteen looks at him, and then nods. "Good… Good luck," she mutters, walking away.

House limps back in his apartment, thigh aching, but it's so worth it. Wilson's sleeping deeply, body drained by the battle going on inside.

Watching him, House feels a rare sensation.

Doubt.

He's never been one to beg for forgiveness, and every time he has it's been with Wilson. He's managed to get Wilson to forgive him more times than anyone else would. What if this time Wilson decides he's done for good, and no amount of prodding gets him to change his mind?

House has no other friends. But if the choice is between a dead Wilson who likes him and an alive Wilson who hates him…

He sighs. A true no-win situation. Damned to hell after all.

But the hell with an alive Wilson still sounds better.

Wilson can barely breathe. Each breath is a labored gasp.

"Idiot," House snaps, fixing the oxygen mask on his face.

Wilson moves it off his mouth. "Promise…" he gasps. "No…" Another gasp. "Hospital…"

"Put that back on," House orders, fixing the mask again. "I already told you I wouldn't."

Wilson takes the mask off again. "You're you," he says simply.

"Yeah," House replies. "And you're you. Now keep this on or I'm going to glue it to your nose." He tries to decide when to give Wilson the sedative, if he'll do it now or when Wilson falls into a light doze.

Wilson smiles weakly as House adjusts it again. House is still House, and the fondness cuts through the pain, just that little bit.

He's caught completely off-guard when the next fit of coughs hits and he suddenly can't breathe at all. It's like his chest is made of solid steel: he heaves his chest and gasps and chokes, but no air will come in, and it's like he's drowning, and House is yelling something and he can't hold on anymore-

House doesn't hesitate. He had planned to have Foreman, Thirteen, and Chase help him get Wilson to the hospital, but he won't risk it now. He calls 9-1-1. After giving the required information, he starts CPR. He hopes the ambulance is fast enough so Wilson won't get permanent brain damage.

"Sorry, but I'm not sorry," he mutters to Wilson's still form. "Everybody lies."

Wilson will hate him, but it's worth it.

The next few hours are a blur. Wilson is unconscious, but he'll wake up sooner or later. For now, he's been exiled to the waiting room, and even he couldn't persuade Wilson's doctor to let him in. So he rests his hand on his cane and twirls it around, thoughts wandering aimlessly.

"Wilson's awake," a nurse says, exiting the room. Looking from one side of the hall to the other, she says, "I'm not supposed to do this, but you can see him now. Just keep in mind-"

"I know," he interrupts. "I'll be quick."

She nods and walks away. House enters the room, holding his breath as he takes the sight of Wilson in. He looks awful. He looks… like the complete opposite of what Wilson's always looked like.

"I assume you're furious with me," House muses, easing himself to a chair slowly to minimize the pain in his thigh.

Wilson sighs. "I knew from the beginning it was a promise you couldn't keep," he says, resigned. "But yes, I am. I didn't want it this way."

House doesn't apologize. "You're an idiot," he says instead.

Wilson's lips quirk for a few milliseconds. It's the shortest smile House has ever seen. "Maybe. But I'm far from the first to choose happiness over health." He looks at House's leg pointedly.

"That's different," House says.

"How?" Wilson asks.

"Because that was me and this is you," House replies simply.

"Sounds about right," Wilson sighs. He looks over at House for a long moment.

House's ah-hah moments aren't limited to his zebras. When he looks at Wilson, it suddenly hits him.

"It wasn't just that you didn't want to die in a hospital. It was that you wanted to die," he says quietly. "You're depressed and the cancer gave you the tool you needed. Or so you thought."

Wilson doesn't deny it. "I'm tired," he says instead.

"I know," House murmurs. There isn't anything else to say.

"Where do we go from here?" Wilson asks. His voice is so weary and resigned, so depressed, and it almost hurts House to hear it.

"You join your cancer kids on the ward," House says, shrugging. "You stop being an idiot."

"No, House," Wilson says, shaking his head. "I told you I didn't want to die like that."

"But you're here," House argues.

"Against my will," Wilson retorts. "You always say everybody lies. Well, you know what an oncologist learns about life? Everybody dies."

 _That may be so, but I'm supposed to go first,_ he thinks. _It would be easier for you without me than me without you…_

"Fine," House says bitterly. "Throw your life away."

"What is there to it?" Wilson asks, looking at him. "What is it you want me to hold on to?"

House knows he isn't that good a friend, but the fact that he isn't even enough to make Wilson want to live hurts. Aren't those twenty years they've been friends worth anything?

He looks out the window. He can't let Wilson go, not like this, but he can't let him be miserable either.

He twists his cane around in his hands. His thoughts wander.

Everybody dies…

Everybody lies.

"I want you to hold on because people need you," he says. "I'm a misanthropic asshole. You aren't. Your cancer kids need you."

"So I live in pain to do a job others are perfectly competent at," Wilson says, bitterly.

"You aren't just competent. You're better than that," House informs him. "And as for living through the pain…" He gestures at his leg. "Welcome to the club. If you join, I'll show you the secret Vicodin handshake."

Wilson snorts. "Sounds about right."

"Anyway, I have to let you sleep or there'll be a team of doctors and nurses trying to strangle me," House says. He stands slowly, rubbing his thigh.

"House," Wilson implores, looking at him. "Will you…" He trails off, gathers his thoughts. "Will you at least think about helping me?"

"Okay," House says convincingly, before turning around and starting to limp away. "Night."

"Night," Wilson says.

_Everybody dies…_

_Everybody lies._


End file.
